From Russia, With Love
by Bonzai-Bunny
Summary: Alfred hates how Ivan makes love to him. M for a reason.


Warnings: Sex, language, masochism

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia

Authoress Note: I apologize in advance for any possible fail. I've never written Russia before and this is only my second Hetalia fic. Dx Also, sorry for the short, vague sex.

-o0o-

Alfred hates the way Ivan makes love to him. Perhaps it was because they didn't really make love. They fucked, which was so much different because, after all, you needed love to make love.

And Alfred hated Ivan, he really did. When they fucked (not make love, of course), it brought out a darker side to him that he didn't like, but they did it again and again. They hated each other, but still used the other for what they wanted, because they had found a long time ago that the heat of hate was much more comforting than the coldness of an empty bed.

And Alfred hated how Ivan could make him do all of the things he claimed his pride would never let him do. How Ivan could hurt him and make Alfred beg for more, could make him scream harder, cum harder with those ways that he shouldn't get pleasure out of, but he did.

Alfred hated that innocent smile that was always plastered to the Russian's face (except for when they made—when they _fucked_). It was mocking and unnerving all at the same time (everyone knew Russia wasn't innocent). It was like he was putting up a mask of childish listlessness to cover (hide) how sadistic he really was and Alfred knew he only ever received a portion of that sadism.

And Alfred hates how Ivan eventually takes off his scarf to wrap it around the American's neck (not tight enough to strangle, but tight enough to be a nuisance).

"You're distracted, da? Forget about it," the Russian pulls him in for a kiss, which is as fierce as they always are; the American, always battling with his tongue and the Russian, relishing in it. But it is a good distraction from his wars, his recession, and his not exactly happy birthday. And Alfred has no choice but to lean into the unusual warmth that is the other man's mouth or else be strangled by pulling away.

It is one of their usual plays on dominance (Ivan claimed that Alfred needed to learn how to act passively in situations where aggression would do more harm than good, but that was hypocritical of the larger nation, if Alfred had anything to say about it).

The grip on the scarf is eventually loosened in their fervor to get each other's clothes off in between those harsh, bruising kisses.

Alfred hates how the larger nation's hot breath ghosting over his neck makes him shiver. He hates how he loves when Russia is dominant like this, how he is pushed roughly against a wall and slapped for taking the scarf off. Then he is kissed with such slow tenderness, it makes his head spin, how Ivan can switch in-between the two extremes so quickly.

Alfred hates how Ivan never takes off his gloves when he touches him. He hates how he actually likes the feel of the leather sliding down his chest and abs before it wraps around his thick, wanting manhood.

It's like Ivan is touching him, but not really, through those alternating fast and slow strokes. It drive him mad; he tosses his head back and moans shamelessly because he knows the Russian isn't going to let him cum, not now.

He can feel the heat of Ivan's own erection close to his, pressed against his thigh, and he hates how Ivan is so much more patient than he is.

"Patience, little America~" he coos, lips hot against the younger nation's neck, in that sing-song tone of his.

"We cannot always get what we want right away."

He punctuates this with a sharp tug to Alfred's already painful erection, but before he can make any sound of objection the Russian claims his mouth again, gripping both of their erections together in his large, gloved hand. And Alfred once again loses himself in that hand and the bitter vodka taste of Ivan's tongue.

Alfred hates how Ivan knows he likes it rough. He wasn't a delicate and demure maiden, he so often had to tell Arthur, but Ivan took it to a whole new level.

When Ivan's gloved finger, lube-less, enters him, he winces, but it's nothing he hasn't felt before. He's still pressed against the wall, only facing it, and that damned scarf is back. The pain blends in nicely with the pleasure and he wonders how he must look, half-bent against a wall. He wonders what Ivan's expression is (he's probably smiling just because Alfred can't see it), but he doesn't wonder too long, because suddenly the Russian is entering him in a painful, quick thrust.

Alfred clenches his teeth because, fuck, he was not expecting that. Ivan must be really angry, he thinks, because he's never done that before. Normally, he entered him so slowly, it was almost sadistic.

He feels the Russian's breath against the back of his neck and it makes the hairs there stand up.

"Did that hurt, little America? Apologies."

But the man doesn't sound apologetic in the least bit. Alfred snarls, suddenly remembering why he hates the larger nation.

"_Fuck you_."

Ivan doesn't say anything, but the harsh, incredibly painful thrust back into him is more than enough of a reply. And the sharp tug to the scarf, almost enough to choke him, just adds insult to injury.

Alfred hisses in pain, but doesn't say anything else, for once just taking it. Ivan works up a steady rhythm, pounding the younger nation mercilessly into the wall and Alfred hates how he likes it. It hurts. It hurts a lot, but it hurts so _good_, and that just baffles the country.

He's never been a masochist before, but every unapologetic thrust deep inside him sends him into a state that he can't describe. His nails desperately try to dig into the wall to hold onto something, to make him stay in the moment and Ivan tightens the scarf the closer he comes to his climax.

He can hear the heavy breath of the Russian in his ear over the lewd sound of their sex, and he knows the larger man is close too. It's in the way he forces Alfred even closer against the wall, it's in the increasing pace of his angry thrusts.

His gloved hand wraps around Alfred's dick to speed him up and he simultaneously tightens the scarf to a choking point. The action shoots adrenaline like a drug through his veins and he gags from the sudden lack of air in his lungs, but before he even thinks to fight the Russian off, Alfred comes like he's never came before.

It shocks the hell out him, but his mind is too dizzy from the explosive sex and the combination of lack of air. His legs are weak and it's amazing to him that he lasts standing as long as he does for the Russian to finish as well.

Ivan comes with a soft groan and he exits just as roughly as he entered. With the loss of mass pressed against him to keep him up right, Alfred's knees collapse from underneath him and he feels strangely cold on the floor, with no body heat wrapped around him.

Ivan kneels down with a small smile (different that the one he shows in front of everyone else) and he kisses the younger country gently on the lips (how does he always know what Alfred wants?).

"Happy Birthday," he whispers against Alfred's mouth and takes his scarf back.

Without another word, he dresses and leaves the room. He got what he wanted and Alfred got what he wanted.

But Alfred hates how Ivan always leaves him wanting more.


End file.
